Siege Mentality

Chapter Nine

*looks at the reviews* Thank you, folks.

This was far more fun reading about Castlereagh *grins*

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Not all the music of the Ainur is grand and celestially beautiful. Some is more akin to a one-man band, and some – well, some is rather like the sound a toddler produces with his elder sister's violin. It was just such an ineffable cacophony which afflicted Imladris.

The Lord of the Galadhrim was locked in his room, as when he was released he tended to try to strangle his son-in-law, or weep all over his daughter's dresses. A dispatch rider had been sent to Lothlórien, begging the Lady's assistance in controlling her recalcitrant husband.

Maglor, having refused to depart, claiming that he needed a rest from wandering the sea shore singing laments, was currently entranced. Arwen sat before him, dangling the Evenstar on its chain, and watching his eyes dart to and fro. The Dúnadan was at present hiding behind the drapes, giggling in a most unseemly manner. It appeared that even scorch marks could not entirely quash a longing for jewels in a son of Fëanor.

The Master of the House … well, his activities, despite a sword through his shoulder, are best left to the imagination. Suffice it to say that Celebrían was humming happily when she left the room.

And Legolas Thranduilion was shackled in the dungeons.

What? Eru help us…

Unfortunately, it was Erestor who found him, having become lost as he tried to extricate the Hobbits from the cold-room. It was Glorfindel who found him in a crumpled heap on the floor.

"Come on, mellon-iaur. How many times will I have to do this?"

But Erestor only groaned.

"Very nice thanks, I see," the golden-haired elf said merrily.

When he returned, having left Elrond's chief advisor sprawled across his bed, he found the young prince still in his uncomfortable situation.

"Release me."

"Now why should I do that?" Glorfindel was mightily amused. "After all, I know not for what crime you have been clapped in chains."

"Do you think this is for any crime? In the name of Elbereth, I am naked," Legolas whined. "She ran away with the keys, saying that she would look for other instruments of interest. Forsooth, I know not where the silly chit has gone."

"Then I do not think it fair to deprive her of her pleasure … or yours." Glorfindel sauntered off, trying to dispel the image of what might happen next.

Alas, as he turned into the main corridor, he collided with Releiiankilia carrying a heavy crate. As its contents spilled across the floor, the hero of Gondolin had the image imprinted on his brain. He shuddered and shielded his eyes.

*Mandos, why did you have to release me? I had much rather listen to Fëanor complain about the accommodation for the rest of Arda than endure this*

He picked up an object which had an uncanny resemblance to a nutmeg grater, and deposited it in the box with a moue of distaste.

*I need not to be sober*

Thus, he collected several bottles of Elrond's finest wine and at least one of miruvor, before retiring to a shady nook in the gardens to drown out the most unpleasant of thoughts.

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"Hey ho, merry dong-a-dildo," Glorfindel sang at the top of his voice as he wove between the trees. Goldberry, who had come to Rivendell to recuperate, as was her wont every couple of centuries, began to hit herself over the head with a spade.

"What is this?" he poked his head into a summerhouse to see Aragorn and Arwen entwined around each other, their clothes in disarray. "I have never clapped eyes on such a pair. Shall I tell your father?"

"Be quiet, Glorfindel, and go away," Aragorn muttered, throwing the shards of Narsil at him. Grinning amiably, he did as he was bidden.

As he danced around the gardens with an imaginary partner, he fell over a group of small creatures sitting on the grass and landed in a large pot of mushrooms simmering in a garlicky sauce.

"What ho, my merry feather dusters," he giggled, singeing his nose on the fragrant liquid, and falling back into the lap of a very startled Ringbearer.

The other Hobbits scowled at him.

"Are you trying to steal the Ring from Mister Frodo, sir?" Sam demanded.

"Ring, what ring? Is it pretty? I have some very pretty rings you know."

Having realised that the inebriated Elf was no threat, the Merry and Pippin proceeded to fleece him at poker.

Finally, with many promises of the keys to the deepest stores as payment, he departed, deciding that it was time to make his way to his rooms. This would have been a fine idea, if he could have remembered where his rooms where.

As it was, he collapsed across a bed which was much softer than he remembered any bed being.

Celebrían lifted her head from her perusal of her husband's chest with an irate expression in her eyes as she regarded the Elf slumped across her legs.

"What is the meaning of this?"

"Oh, is this not my room?"

"No." She exchanged a look with Elrond. "You are not fit to be up yet. I must take him to his chambers."

Re-lacing the front of her robe, something which was easier said than done as she could not find the fine satin ribbons, she picked Glorfindel off the bed. Eventually, she found one of Elrond's bootlaces and used it to restore her modesty.

"Y're verrry pr'ty y'know," Glorfindel slurred as she pushed him down the corridor.

"Tell your pillows that." She shoved him over the lintel.

His eyes lit up as he beheld the dark-haired figure asleep on his bed.

"Your verrry pr'ty, my pillow." He prodded Erestor into wakefulness.

"What? Ow, get off me, you fool!" The advisor tried to roll out of the way.

"Nuh. Not fool. Glorfin… Golfrin … Gorfineelkd … Gofi…" Glorfindel said triumphantly. "'M Gofi and I like your hair…"

At that he fell asleep and Erestor made his escape, barricading himself into a cupboard.

"That is my foot," a voice complained from the darkness. Fumbling around, the Elf managed to light a candle stub. Holding it up, he saw Boromir crouched in a corner, clutching his foot.

"I am sorry." He tried to bow, but only succeeded in hitting his head on a shelf on which sat a very moth-eaten tunic and the twins' disastrous childhood efforts at pottery.

Picking shards of a particularly gruesome statue of Ulmo, whose face fluoresced in the dark, from his hair, he asked, "Why are you here?"

"One of Legolas' followers tried to stone me to death with cosmetics. You?"

'Glorfindel is drunk."

The Son of Gondor seemed to accept that explanation.

"And to think that I heard this was a sanctuary…"

"It once was, but now … Oh Eru, 'tis the madness these girls have brought with them."

Boromir reflected on this for a few moments before drawing a wineskin from its resting-place on the floor.

"Drink?"

"Please."

When they had drunk enough to sink one of the Mumakil of Harad, they fell asleep among the battered pots and pans, Erestor's head on the unused shoes which Eärendil had forgotten to take with him in his last voyage, Boromir's on Maglor's ink-stained draft of the Noldolantë.

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